


A Best Man's Duty

by nat_scribbles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Unrequited, accidental angst, kind of, tagged explicit for future chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:19:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1188372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nat_scribbles/pseuds/nat_scribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s pre-wedding ‘dance lessons’ with Sherlock were a metaphor for something far more intimate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Best Man's Duty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SplendidSparklingFire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplendidSparklingFire/gifts).



> This is my gift to splendidsparklingfire (on tumblr) for the Valentine's Day Johnlock Challenge Gift Exchange. Her prompt is what you can find in the summary and she requested smut, which I promise to deliver in future chapters. I hope you like it!
> 
>  
> 
> English isn't my first language and I wrote this in a dizzy haze while battling with some sort of mutant stomach virus (not to fret, I am determined to win this war), so I'm sorry for any mistakes! I'm going to ask my beta/brit-pick to go over this once she has time.
> 
> As always, characters are not mine, I'm just having fun with them.

Perfect.

Everything needs to completely and absolutely perfect. He did not spend almost ten hours yesterday (was it yesterday? Today?) watching videos on how to fold serviettes, carefully ruling out this or that shape, perfecting several of them, for the day to be anything other than perfect.

The day.

John’s day.

John and Mary’s da _–no shut up, shut up_.

Sherlock likes Mary, really, he does. She was an unexpected surprise. Not only because she was there when he came back (how had he not thought of it? Of the possibility that John would, as his fat whale of a brother put it, “get on with his life”? _Stupid, stupid_ ), but because, and this is the part that hurts, she is perfect. Mary is intelligent, witty, strong, caring. Mary is everything John needs, danger excluded. And Sherlock likes her, because how could he not?

Sometimes he wishes he hated her.

He picks up the violin almost absently, plucking at the strings to tune it. It’s frustrating; he can’t seem to get it just right. The D-string is slightly too low or too high and try as he might turning the pegs, he can’t seem to tune it properly. In the end, he settles for a bit too low. It may still sound like a D to less expert ears, but it’s grating to him. He prays to a God he doesn’t believe in for Mycroft to stay away from 221B that evening. Can’t even tune his own violin, what an embarrassment.

He tenses the bow, carefully puts rosin on it. Lovingly. He quite enjoys this part of the ritual, the warm, welcoming smell (just like Mummy’s old books, the pages yellow and their scent sweet, heavy on the small table by the armchair in front of the fireplace, a mysterious cup of tea always ready and waiting for him), the familiar sound. He wraps the rosin again and puts it inside the violin case, resting on top of dark blue velvet.

He starts playing, nothing seriously, just letting his fingers run free. A few scales, an etude to warm up. Melodies that mingle with other melodies before they are finished in an endless medley. He sways to the music, eyes closed, and lets his mind fly, chase the notes. He couldn’t stop playing if he tried. He is floating, somewhere above his body, and has no control over his hands anymore. Not that he wants to stop playing.

But what are his feet doing? That’s not just swaying. He’s... dancing. Well, he’s always liked dancing. To be fair, he was never really good at ballet (and he tried, he still tries, but for all his body is quite elegant, it seems it’s just not built for it, but he likes it so much and he tries and tries), but ballroom dancing... Now that is another matter. Never as fun, always depending on the skill of the other partner, but he is oh so good at it (“My little Fred Astaire”, Mummy used to say and then smile up at his father, a glint in her eye, and they’d share a look, and Sherlock would think that he gets more than cheekbones from him).

He realises he’s playing a waltz. Strauss, of course. Could he be more obvious. Still, he doesn’t change the song. They are masterpieces after all. He wonders what will be playing at the wedding (not _An der schönen blauen Donau_ for the love of God, not that one) and the sudden stab of pain is almost enough to make his tempo falter. He’s gotten very used at ignoring those lately, so he doesn’t let it affect him or his music. He keeps playing and playing and playing, thinking of which waltz would be the perfect waltz for John’s perfect day.

None of them are good enough.

So he keeps playing, switching from one to the other, transitioning between keys, but keeping the same ternary base, in an endless waltz.

***

“Practicing for the wedding?”

John’s voice wakes him up from his reverie. His hands are still playing, his feet moving; he still hasn’t come down enough to control them. How long has been John standing there? His brain didn’t register him coming in. Probably because it still feels like John lives in 221B, like he’s still part of it.

He isn’t.

He must remember that.

Soon enough he is able to connect his mouth to his brain. His feet will be next, his hands last.

“Ah, John. Have you and Mary thought about the waltz yet?” he asks, turning around to the beat of the music to face his flatm- his _former_ flatmate.

“Uh, no, not yet. I don’t think so, no.” John answers, scratching the back of his head absently.

They stay like that, Sherlock playing and still dancing, John watching him with that half amused smile of his, pink tongue peeking between his lips. Sherlock’s slowly coming down, his legs gradually not moving as much until he’s only swaying.

“Right then.” John says after a while, how long Sherlock doesn’t know. He’s always had trouble keeping track of time when he’s playing. He hears John turning the kettle on, washing his mug (and maybe this is why it still feels as if John lives in 221B, because his mug is still there and his chair is still there but now it’s always empty, empty, empty). The kettle beeps and John comes out of the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs. He sets one on the table, clutches the other in his hands to warm them up. The song has almost ended and Sherlock has enough control over his fingers to let it finish, the last note filling the air vibrantly, instead of lacing it with yet another waltz.

John is sitting on his armchair, blowing on his tea. It almost feels as if John still lives there. Almost. He is wearing shoes. Sherlock got so used to watching John drinking tea on his armchair, barefoot, toes wiggling slightly. It feels wrong that he wears shoes inside 221B now.

“You were dancing.”

Sherlock doesn’t need to be looking at John’s face to hear the smirk.

“I was _playing_.” He corrects him, putting the violin and the bow back in the case after loosening it up again. It doesn’t count as dancing if he didn’t give permission to his feet to move, does it?

“No.” John says, the smile wider, and it sounds like when he said, when he _confirmed_ (and Sherlock can still hear it “No, it is, it _is._ ”), that the wedding would be the most important day in his life. Sherlock’s insides twist painfully again and he sits on his armchair, facing John. “You were _dancing_.”

Sherlock sniffs haughtily and leans forward to take his cup of tea. It’s perfect, of course.

“Didn’t know you could dance, is all.” John continues, his smile warmer, and Sherlock feels his body relax. His lips want him to return the smile and he has to fight them, a treacherous twitch escaping anyway. Damn.

“Every gentleman knows how to dance.” Sherlock says, raising an eyebrow and daring John to disagree. He half expects him to laugh and say Sherlock is anything but a gentleman.

To his surprise, John looks down at his tea, frowning slightly, and licks his lips, purses them slightly, licks them again. Sherlock has always found that habit terribly distracting, his eyes involuntarily following the movement.

“I don’t.” John says quietly, and Sherlock blinks up at him in confusion for a moment. “Dance.” John clarifies, ears turning slightly pink.

John is rarely embarrassed. Mortified by something Sherlock has done? Yes. Angry? Yes. Exasperated? Yes. Frustrated? Yes. But embarrassed about _himself_? It’s a rare occurrence. Sherlock watches the flush extend to his cheeks. It’s fascinating.

He stands up, cup of tea forgotten, and takes off his old blue dressing gown that he recently found in John’s ro- in John’s _former_ room. What the dressing gown was doing in there, he doesn’t know.

“What are you doing.” It should be a question, but it doesn’t sound like it. It’s the first word that was stressed, a small pause after it, the end of the sentence flat instead of going up in an inquiry. Sherlock has noticed it’s a thing John does, this weird intonation, the asking questions but not quite.

“I would think it’s quite obvious, John.” He answers, allowing his mouth to quirk into an amused smile, his tone dripping with _come on John it’s so obvious_. “I believe it’s part of my best man duties to make sure the groom knows how to dance.”

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably point out that all the musical knowledge in this has been translated directly from Spanish. What can I say, my degree is almost useless for being in another language! Also my experience with violins is very limited to playing in an orchestra a couple of times. You see, I play piano. I do remember our conductor explaining to us that good violinists tune some strings with the pegs instead of the fine tuners for a richer sound. Our first violin was very good at playing and kind of hopeless at tuning and I remember him battling with the D-string, which is why I remember that it's one of those strings. Don't ask me about the other one though, I wouldn't know.
> 
> Also, as a ballet dancer, that pirouette in The Sign of Three made me cringe and want to tear both my skin and hair out. Hence why I say that try as he might, Sherlock can't dance ballet. It's a shame they made him perform a movement that requires a bit of technique to pull off gracefully. He is naturally very elegant (just watch his lines, they are a dancer's dream, or his back in Star Trek: Into the Darkness) and it would have been very convincing with another (easier) move.
> 
> Whoops sorry for the long notes and kind of accidental rant!


End file.
